WELL THAT'S NOT ME.
And I'm here to say this: what the HELL are you thinking?!? Do you truly want your man or your woman in all your bizness?? Do you really have to have ownership over each other's thoughts?!?
Okay, I love The Man. I like him just fine. I have to share a bed with his snoring, leg-jigging, breath-holding, sleep-apnea-maniac self. I make his dinners. I lovingly (coff) wash his gitch (but I don't pair his million black socks up any longer (yeah, I just regained an hour of ME-time each week). I pretend I don't notice how comic books are starting to appear in all nooks and crannies of the house. I shave the hars off the back of his neck for him. I still hold hands whenever the kids disappear and we can pretend we're not ADVERSARIES for a little while. I rant to him about stuff. I half listen while he tells me all about that ridiculous show he likes, whereby grown-ass people have to race through some insane obstacle course, and get bounced/smacked/spun off stuff like human pinballs (oh, you don't have to watch WIPEOUT? Aren't you special).
I do not share EVERYTHING with him. Are you insane?!? I don't want him to share everything with me either. If he wants to go on the computer and look up...questionable sites, I don't give a crap. I don't look through his files, and he doesn't give a crap about mine :) We have OUR stuff, HIS stuff and MY STUFF. And THAT, IS THE WAY IT SHOULD BE.
Okay, so I'm on the computer far too much. I love blog land. I want to move into it and live in it forever. I'll never have to make snacks for anyone ever again. My only duties will be to add new gadgets to my side pane, and occasionally upgrade my layout. I already told my husband that blog world is far more fulfilling than my real world, har de har har. The Man has, thus far, never really been too interested in my blog. I'm pretty sure he thinks he already gets his share of whining, ranting, bitchery, and hyperbole simply by living with me. Thus, when he gets a minute or two to himself, he's sure as hell not going to cozy up to a nice, prickly post about my PMS. He gets the blog previews daily.
I can dig that. It may have bruised my widdle ego once upon a long time ago, but truly I don't care. In fact, I like it. I can write about whatever I like! Boobies, poop, maxi pads, foreskin (yeah, it's coming. You've been warned), etc, and do it without the discomfort of a disapproving eye watching over me.
Recently, however, he DARED INVADE MY PERSONAL SPACE!!!
Yeah, I have this notepad. I lovingly named it my THINK PAD. I write all my writeable, thinkable thoughts in it: blog post ideas, recipe ideas, crazy-freaking-out-mom hypotheses, Autism mumbo-jumbo. It's mine. Allllll mine.
See? This is my THINK PAD. Here is a post I lovingly wrote out by hand one day. At the top of the page it says "DINK ROCK," which was to remind me to post that special picture.
|recipe ideas...NO PEEKING!|
This pic shows a couple of fun little conversation with Ella and The Man I didn't want to forget:
I was checking out Ella's kinder egg surprise toy, which happened to be a cool spaceman video game type guy:
Me: "Ella! You got DADDY'S DREAM TOY!"
then I turned to The Man: "This is the part where you say; 'Actually, that's YOU, Babe." Ha ha, get it?
Convo at the kitchen table:
Me: "This coffee is DELICIOUS. I want to MARRY THIS COFFEE."
Ella: "but it doesn't even talk!"
So like I mentioned, I wrote my post, when our power was out one day, about being slaves to technology in it. I happened to mention something pertaining this post to The Man one day, and he said;
"Yeah, I know. I read your blog.
"Me: "You...read my blog??"
"Yeah, the one you wrote out. It was right there [beside the computer] and I was curious."
Okay, that's fine. He didn't mention how clever and thought-provoking and witty it was. NOOOO...of course not. So, I moved on.
Then one day, I was flipping through my THINK PAD to find a page to scribble something new on...and found THIS:
|I know. You're mortified too.|
WHAT THE F*CK
How DARE he doodle in MY THINK PAD?!?
Clearly, I'm going to have to hide it.